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VERSES 
AND TRANSLATIONS 



STOLEN BY THE AUTHOR 
FROM HIS LEISURE HOURS 



BY 



MP' RUSSELL THAYER 



PHILADELPHIA 
1905 



1 JUL 26 Jyu^ 1 



a. 




HI7V4-, 



7'y 



Copyright, 1905 
By M. Russell Thayer 



Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia 



><c^ 



>^ CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Blue Ribbon of the Garter 7 

Invocation of the " Casta Diva" 7 

The Voyage of Life 8 

Je t'aimerai 11 

I'll love Thee still 12 

A Dirge for Custer 13 

A Lament 15 

An Epitaph 17 

Au Revoir 18 

Alone 18 

Memories 19 

The Raising of Samuel 19 

Vespers in the Chapel of the Holy Innocents, at 

St. Mary's, Burlington 24 

Burlington Bank 28 

Song of the Revolutionary 29 

An Exorcism 31 

Another Exorcism 33 

To A Lady who sent Him a Bunch of Flowers in his 

Sickness 33 

Lines to S 34 

Lines to Mrs. E. M 34 

3 



PAGE 

Likes written in the Album of the Countess Benti- 

VOGLIO 35 

On the Death of a Little Child 36 

To the Lady who refused a Lock of Hair to exorcise 

THE Foul Fiend of Sickness 37 

Words accompanying a Glass of Iced Punch 38 

" Remember now thy Creator in the Days of thy 

Youth," etc 39 

The Canary's Dirge 40 

The Canary's Return 41 

Lines sent to Mrs. Arthur Middleton and Mrs. Ed- 
ward MiDDLETON with A BouaUET OF FlOWERS 42 

Lines addressed to Professor Agassiz 42 

A Valentine 44 

Another Valentine 45 

To 46 

Lines to Mrs. K 48 

Lines to a Lady on her Nineteenth Birthday 49 

To J 52 

Daguerreotypes 53 

To WITH A Bouquet of Flowers 55 

Lines written in a Prayer-Book 55 

Lines addressed to the Countess Paulina Bentivoglio 
on her Departure for Rome, with a Dead But- 
terfly ENCLOSED 56 

Lines inscribed on the Walls of his Room in Bur- 
lington 57 

Clouds 58 

Lines to my Daughter on her Birthday 59 

4 



PAGE 

Sunshine 60 

To S. D. T 61 

A Sick-Bed Psalm 62 

To J 62 

Caroline 63 

Lines to H. N 64 

An Epitaph on a Favorite Scotch Dog called 

" Major " 65 

Another Epitaph on " Major " 65 

To Charlotte G., of Boston, accompanying a Bow 

dropped by Miss G 66 

To 66 

Lake George 68 

An Answer to Miss Landon's "Love in a Cottage".. 69 

A Blessing 70 

Birds of Passage 70 

Life 71 

The Iceberg 71 

The Burial of the Old Year 74 

The Voice of the Spring-Time 77 

Archytas — A Translation 80 

To Chloe — A Translation 83 

To Lydia — A Translation 84 

Translations from Theocritus 85 

From Juvenal's Tenth Satire 92 

From the Life of Agricola by Tacitus — A Transla- 
tion 92 



THE BLUE RIBBON OF THE GARTER 

When the third Edward charged on Cressy's field 

For England's honor and his royal right, 
And France beneath the sudden tempest reeled 

Of English swords that fell with flashing light, 
A ribbon blue from royal limbs unbound. 

And wildly streaming from the monarch's helm, 
Told where the battle's fiercest thunder rolled 

And marked the spot whereon was lost a realm. 



INVOCATION OF THE " CASTA DIVA" 

O thou, whose modest, soft, and pensive light, 

Piercing the shade of melancholy boughs, 
With glory crowned the long, still, summer night. 

Where Cretan maidens pledged their early vows ; 
Or o'er the wild and lonely Dorian hills 

Amid thy train of nymphs wast seen to sweep. 
Or lightly danced to sound of gushing rills. 

That rolled from Latmus' dark and cavern'd 
steep. 

Hail to thy smile to-night ! 

Hail to thy flowing hair ! 
Hail to thy hallowed light ! 

Hail, Goddess, chaste and fair ! 

7 



O thou, Latona's fairest, sweetest child, 

Apollo's peerless sister, who, with locks untied. 
Wast wont to chase the golden deer, that wild 

By swift Anaurus roamed in antlered pride, 
Who oft, as Grecian legends wildly tell. 

On green Thessalian hills, amid the chase. 
The boy Endymion met, who loved so well 

Thy matchless beauty and thy faultless grace. 

Hail to thy smile to-night ! 

Hail to thy flowing hair ! 
Hail to thy hallowed light ! 

Hail, Goddess, chaste and fair! 



THE VOYAGE OF LIFE 

" Per varies casus, per tot discrimina rerum, tendinus in 
Latium." — ^neid, Lib. 1. 

Our life is but a shifting cruise 

Upon the seas of time, 
Beneath us roll the restless waves. 

The stars above us shine. 

Bright skies of youth above us bend, 

And joy the sail unfurls ; 
A land breeze drives us from the strand, 

And blue the ocean curls. 



The sunny isles are on our lea, 

And dream-land f adeth fast ; 
Before the wind we crowd away, 

The shores of youth are past ! 

The ship is tight, the sails are strong, 

Our hearts are hearts of oak ; 
We shrink not from the white waves rush, 

And quail not at its shock. 

The storm-clouds hang in dusky folds 

O'er manhood's rocky prime ; 
Loud thunders shake the tropic seas. 

We cross the burning line ! 

Before the trade-winds of success 

Now fearlessly we plough. 
Ambition's beacon light ahead. 

The gold coast on our bow. 

Gray disappointment lifts afar 

His summits bleak and bare. 
And at their base in anger burst 

The whirlpools of despair. 

The winds are cold, the fogs are thick. 

Like lead the heavy sky ; 
Our sister barks are foundered all. 

Before the gale we fly. 



Amid the mists of growing years, 

Around the Cape we flee ; 
Old age's waste before us hes, 

A lone Pacific sea. 

The tide of time still bears us on, 

There is no place of rest ; 
But aromatic odors blow 

From islands of the blest. 

The sea is wide and lone and drear. 

And silence everywhere ; 
But golden sunset on the waves. 

And music in the air. 

The coral reefs beneath us lie, 

But clear the stars arise, 
And in the crystal depths we see 

The image of the skies. 

The fourth watch of the night is past, 

The day begins to break, 
The frozen sea of fate is near, 

" Oh, sleep not now ! Awake !" 

" Stand up, thou aged mariner ! 

Hold fast the swinging helm ! 

And fear thou not the surf that rolls 

On Death's Antarctic realm ! 
10 



" Trust thou In God ! and though thy sails 
In shreds must strew the blast, 

Thy gallant bark shall ride it out, 
And make the land at last !" 



JE T'AIMERAI 

Je t'aimerai, je cherirai mes chaines, 
Tant que la rose aura sa douce odeur, 

Le ciel ses feux, la terre ses fontaines, 

L'onde son cours et les bois leur frondeur. 

Je t'aimerai. 

Je t'aimerai, je te serai fidele, 

Tant que I'epine armera les buissons, 

Tant que du caillou jaillira I'etincelle, 
Tant que I'echo reflechira les sons. 

Je t'aimerai. 

Je t'aimerai, tant que dans la nature 
Succederont les roses aux boutons, 

Aux noirs f rimas une aimable verdure, 

Les fruits aux fleurs, les saisons aux saisons. 

Je t'aimerai. 



11 



I'LL LOVE THEE STILL 

While roses breathe their sweet perfume, 
And stars keep silent watch on high, 

While fountains sparkle in the sultry noon. 
And green-leaved woods in summer sigh. 

While tides are true unto the changing moon, 

I'll love thee still ! 

While thorns shall bristle in the tangled dell, 
While rocks their hidden fires contain. 

And echo's voice delight to tell, 

In sweet response, thy lovely name. 

One faithful passion shall my bosom swell, 

I'll love thee still ! 

While buds shall burst to blooming flowers. 
And winter's barren frosts give place 

To spring-time's green and laughing bowers ; 
While o'er fair Nature's varied face 

The seasons roll their changing hours, 

I'll love thee still ! 



12 



A DIRGE FOR CUSTER 

I. 

Let all the muffled bells be tolled, 
Let all the muffled drums be rolled, 
Let all the banners weep and trail. 
And let the trumpets blow a mournful wail. 
For the brave whose last long march is o'er, 
For the brave who will return no more. 
Toll, toll, toll. 
Roll, roll, roll, 
Ye muffled bells and muffled drums. 
For the brave who will return no more. 



II. 

All through the blaze of burning day. 

All through the dusty plain they rode away ; 

All through the gloom of deepening night 

They climbed and waited for the dawning light. 

Weep, O ye mountain mists that gather o'er 

The brave who will return no more, no more. 

Toll, toll, ye muffled bells. 

Roll, roll, ye muffled drums. 

For the brave who are no more. 
13 



III. 

Up through the frowning woods, up where the 

torrents run, 
Their sabres flashing in the morning sun. 
Each order passed in accents stern but low, — 
Their yellow squadrons ride to meet the foe. 
Their starry flag still proudly floating o'er 
The brave who will return no more, no more. 
Toll, toll, ye muffled bells. 
Roll, roll, ye muffled drums, 
For the brave who are no more. 

IV. 

Down through the savage glens they charge, 
Down to the river's wooded marge. 
Nor heed the legion fiends in hiding there, 
Nor fear the savage yells that rend the air. 
O God, it is a fearful odds they brave. 
They fight not now, but for a soldier's grave. 
Toll, toll, ye muffled bells. 
Roll, roll, ye muffled drums. 
For the brave who are no more. 

V. 

Their deeds of wondrous valor who shall tell.? 

No soldier left the field where Custer fell. 

Beneath the wild Montana woods they sleep. 

Above their lonely couch the aspens weep ; 

14 



But every wind that blows across their grave 
Shall mourn for aye the unreturning brave. 
Toll, toll, toll. 
Roll, roll, roll. 
Ye muffled bells and muffled drums, 
For the brave who will return no more. 

A LAMENT 

" My heart is smitten and withered like grass." — Psalm cii. 

There is a sharper pang than death, 
A lot more lonely than the grave — 

It is to live and draw our breath 

O'er those we loved but could not save. 

There is a yearning for the dead 
That living love can never know, 

A passion that hath naught of dread, 
But is the very dregs of woe. 

To live when all hath faded quite. 

In the wide world to be alone. 
And smothered is the cheerful hght 

That shone upon our warm hearthstone. 

To stand beside the green-clad mound 
That closely shrines a mother's clay ; 

To lay her little children down 

In all the bloom of life's young day. 
15 



In dreams to see their faces dear, 
And live again the years long flown ; 

To wake in darkness and in tears 
And find them gone, forever gone. 

To breathe and move 'mid living men, 
With heart close wedded to the dead ; 

To seek to fold them in our arms. 
And clasp a shade instead. 

To sigh to join them on the happy shore. 

And yet in soUtude live on ; 
To look for those we see no more. 

The lovely ones all gone. 

To live, to move, to draw our breath 
O'er those we loved but could not save- 

This is a sharper pang than death, 
A lot more lonely than the grave. 

Cease, oh, cease, complaining heart. 
And weep not for thine early dead ; 

From life's dull thraldom they depart 
A better, fairer land to tread. 

A flowery portal is the grave 

That leads to God's own land above — 
There shalt thou find them all again. 

With all their beauty, all their love. 
16 



AN EPITAPH 

" Ex tumulo fortunataque favilla nascentur violas." 
" Lay her i' the earth. 
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring." 

Hamlet. 

Beneath this bending rose-tree's snowy bloom, 

Planted by loving hands and wet with many 
tears, 
They made, in hope but yet in sorrow, room 

For her whose smile through all the rolling years 
Had sown with flowers the paths of many feet. 

Beneath this springing turf, this sunny spot 
Here in this fragrant solitude, so meet 

A resting-place for her whose happy lot 
It was on earth to gather many friends. 

And ne'er amid its tumults, one to lose ; 
Here, where o'er the violets' bloom the cypress 
bends, 

And summer winds the summer blossoms woo, 
They laid her in the morning of her days. 

Stay, O stranger, stay thy wandering tread. 
One moment stay upon thy weary way. 

And bless the memory of the early dead. 



17 



AU REVOIR 

A few short years of exile here, 

Like strangers on a foreign strand, 
'Mid life's dead hopes and withered flowers. 

And we shall meet thee in that better land, 
Where now thy faultless spirit roams — 

The sea that rolls between us crossed — 
And clasp thee in our arms once more, 

Oh, early loved and early lost ! 



ALONE 

All, all alone upon a dreary road. 

With blighted flowers and withered roses strown. 
He journeys on beneath the load 

Of sorrow that no ending hath. 
A poor benighted traveller, he sees afar 

No ruddy gleam to cheer him on. 
Alas ! the light that was his morning star 

Upon his hearthstone has gone out. 



18 



MEMORIES 

Sweet memories that rise 

On life's o'erclouded path, 
When hope a stricken quarry lies 

Beneath the tempest's wrath. 
A broken lute, a dying strain 

That haunts our evening dreams, 
A sunset sky with golden rain, 

Or moonlight on the seas. 

THE RAISING OF SAMUEL 

Within the shadow of the rifted crags 
The mountain wolf had sought his lair, and like 
The mingling footsteps of a countless host 
The autumn rain upon the withered leaves 
In mournful murmurs fell; and night winds crept 
With dismal sighs across Gilboa's wilds. 
When from the sleeping camp the king went forth. 
A darker cloud than that which in its folds 
Enveloped all the hills was on his brow ; 
His step was regal still, and firm as when 
Of yore amid the gathered tribes he stood, 
A graceful stripling, at the prophet's side. 
And heard the loyal shout that made him king. 
His giant form, that like the forest pine 
Had soared on Mizpah's plain above the throng 

19 



Of mail-clad chiefs, was still unbent with years, 
And in its iron prime the strength revealed 
That on an hundred fields had backward rolled 
The tide of war, and made his name a fear 
Wherewith Philistine mothers oft had stilled 
The cries of children trembling at their knees. 
Unquenched within his martial eye there burned 
The blaze of that heroic courage still 
That in his youth before him drove like sheep 
The scattered rout of Amalek, and o'er 
The plains of Moab scourged the gentile brood 
That with its presence mocked the camp of God. 
But from his cheek the bloom had passed away 
That, Hke the crimson sunrise on the sea. 
Had tinged the dusky oHve of his youth. 
Upon his manly visage, bronzed by toil 
And desert marches and the watch-fire's light. 
The majesty of peace no longer dwelt ; 
But from the gloomy portals of his soul. 
Like caged and cruel vultures through their bars. 
Looked forth remorse and desolate despair. 
Before his eyes in visioned horror rose 
The priests in sacrilegious fury slain. 
Their snowy robes all stained with gore. 
And on their sacred brows the furrows deep and red 
Of his apostate sword. Within his ears 
Forever rang, as if they called for doom. 
The smothered cries of Hebrew babes that from 

20 



Their mother's bleeding arms were dashed, when by 

His stern command the sacred city fell. 

In dreams or by the voice of holy men, 

Or on the mystic breastplate's awful front, 

No sign appeared, and in the frown of Heaven, 

As in the shadow of a thunder-cloud. 

His proud and melancholy footsteps lay. 

Upon the night breeze came 
From far, above the sound of dashing rain. 
The warlike murmur of the heathen host. 
That with its thousand camp-fires lit the sky. 
And with the sound of desert drums and clash 
Of cymbals sharp the midnight silence broke. 
That morn, with tread that shook the harvest field, 
And banners streaming in the golden dawn. 
Through Shunem's gates their countless spears had 

passed. 
And in her crowded ways their hostile hordes 
With tumult fierce and wild confusion swarmed. 
In Judah's rocky camp the sound was heard. 
And in his heavy sleep the soldier turned 
And dreamed of laughing children in his vine-clad 

home; 
And as around his neck he felt once more 
Their little arms entwined, awoke in tears. 

Across the hills and through the forest paths. 

And o'er the stormy plain, the monarch strode, 

21 



And stood at length within the cavern'd gloom, 

Where with the beasts among the mountain wilds, 

An outcast from the brotherhood of man. 

In fearful solitude the sorceress dwelt 

Whose voice, as white-lipped rumor trembling told. 

Had power, by dark mysterious spells. 

From out the voiceless realm of dusty death 

The living shapes of buried men to call. 

Her wrinkled form, with years and sorrow bent, 

Upon the wall a ghastly shadow cast. 

And like the sea-foam on her shoulders streamed 

Her long dishevelled hair. A light like that 

Which gleams from out the eyes of dying men 

Was o'er her pale and hollow features cast. 

And on her ashen cheek the dreadful smile 

That madness in its rapture wears. She seemed 

A living death forever doomed to bear, 

Amid the ruins of decrepit age. 

The weary load of j oyless life that prays 

In vain for dreamless slumber in the grave. 

Upon the king her mournful gaze she turned. 

And o'er her withered limbs a shudder passed. 

As with a frozen voice he bade her call 

The spirit of the buried prophet up 

Whose bones were hearsed in death at Ramah. 

The air was calm, and not a sound save that 

Of falling rain among the forest leaves 

Was heard, and like a giant statue stood 



The king, breathless and still amid the gloom. 

And on the dusky air liis vision bent, 

When with her gaunt and shrivelled arm upraised, 

And with a muttered charm, she bade him " come !" 

A peal of thunder shook the midnight sky : 

And, as it died among the distant hills. 

There came a sound upon the ebon air. 

As if an earthquake struggled with its chains. 

And from its prison gloom was rushing forth. 

A wild unearthly gleam the cavern filled. 

And in its dim and lurid light stood forth 

A pale majestic form. 

The woman shrieked with fear, and from the king 

Burst forth a groan, as to the earth he reeled 

And on the rocky floor his armor rang ; 

" I see, I see," she screamed, " the form of Gods 

From out the womb of earth ascending rise ! 

Such as he was when in his robes he stood 

To judge the tribes, he stands ! an aged man 

With frowning look, and locks like drifted snow. 

And o'er his form a prophet's mantle thrown !" 

She ceased, and like the sound of sullen floods 

There came a sad and solemn voice that cried, 

" Wherefore with rude disquiet from the dust 

Hast thou provoked my resting soul, and called 

Me up to earth, O false degenerate Saul ! 

Behold, from out thine hand the Lord hath rent 

Thy kingly power ! upon thine uncrowned brow 

23 



The dews of death already stand, and ere 
The shadows of another night shall fall 
Thou and thy princely sons with me shall be !" 
The voice was hushed, and like the viewless wind 
The shadowed form had fled. 

The storm had passed. 
Slowly the king rose up, and as he went 
The light of morning stars revealed big tears 
That stood upon his cold and bloodless cheek. 



VESPERS IN THE CHAPEL OF THE HOLY 
INNOCENTS, AT ST. MARY'S, BURLING- 
TON 

[Note. — The Chapel of the Holy Innocents is the Chapel 
of St. Mary's Hall. On a scroll pictured in the large stained 
window facing the west is the inscription, " Behold the hand- 
maid of the Lord."] 

Twilight's dews are falling fast 

Upon the green and silent shore ; 
Twilight clouds their shadows cast 

The deeply rolling river o'er. 
The zephyr's voice is scarcely heard 

Amid the willows' pensive boughs ; 
The robin's song is silent now, 

And hushed the boatman's wild carouse. 
24 



Dimly and red the rolling sun 

Now sinks beneath the western sky, 
As like a king whose race is run, 

He lays him down in pomp to die. 
Upon the river's swelling breast 

His soft and crimson glory falls, 
On many a cloud's embattled crest, 

And on St. Mary's hallowed walls. 

Hark ! the vesper bell is tolling 

With a sweet and mournful sound, 
O'er the woods and waters rolling 

In murmurs deep and strains profound. 
To prayer ! to prayer ! Oh, come and kneel 

Before the great and glorious God, 
And learn the language of the skies. 

Ye gentle " handmaids of the Lord." 

In thronging beauty forth they come 

Unto the solemn place of prayer ; 
And now the organ's pealing notes 

Are trembling on the evening air. 
A hundred voices soft and clear 

Are floating through the arches high, 
A hundred voices tuned as one 

Are ringing upward to the sky. 

" God be merciful unto us, and bless 
us, and show us the light of His 

countenance." 

25 



Oh, holy strain, oh, blessed prayer. 

That rolls along the solemn aisle, 
That floats upon the evening air. 

And angels bear to Heaven the while ; 
Across the waves, across the fields, 

It swells with cadence strong and full, 
And lingers on the trembling leaves — 

" To us, O God, be Merciful." 



The sunset's red and golden light 

Is streaming on the chancel floor. 
And through the chapel's vaulted height 

The blessed prayer is heard to pour. 
And with the organ's pealing sound 

Still swells in cadence sweet and full, 
Till every echo breathes around, 

" To us, O God, be Merciful." 



The river wind hath caught the sound. 

And bears it on his pinions strong ; 
And trees, with summer glory crowned, 

The blest and holy strain prolong. 
And floating on the distant air 

Is borne, in cadence low but full. 
The burthen of the evening prayer — 

" To us, O God, be Merciful." 
26 



The fisher on his homeward way, 

Silent leaneth on his weary oar, 
And hears amid the twilight gray 

That sweet and solemn chant once more, 
As stealing o'er the waters far, 

In accents wild and cadence full. 
It trembles on the summer air — 

" To us, O God, be Merciful." 



27 



BURLINGTON BANK 

On many a long and sunny day, 

Along thy green and shadowy shore, 
That like an emerald carpet lay, 

With early daisies sprinkled o'er, 
I've wandered in a gentle dream. 

And thought, how like the river's solemn flow, 
The chequer'd shade and summer gleam, 

And murmur soft of waters low, 
This morning dream of life doth seem. 

On many a sweet and starlight eve. 

When parting daylight on thy waters slept. 

As loath thy fragrant shades to leave. 
And summer dews in silence wept, 

I've wandered in a pensive dream, 

And thought how like the sunset's parting glow. 

The silent dew, and passing stream. 

This changing dream of life doth seem. 

On mauy a wild and windy night. 

No starlight in the darkened sky. 
When spirit voices seemed to shout 

Amid thy cloistered branches high, 
I've wandered in a lonely dream. 

And thought how like the rushing wind, 

The shadows dark, and moaning stream, 

This stormy dream of life doth seem. 

28 



SONG OF THE REVOLUTIONARY 

(Tune — " Dearest Mae") 

Come, children, gather round me, and listen while I 

tell 
A story of the struggle in which your fathers fell. 
How in the valleys and on the lonely hills 
Their blood was mingled freely with the peaceful 

summer rills. 

(Chorus) Oh, Liberty! 

What blood has flowed for thee ! 

What hopes once bright 

Have set in night. 
For the happy days we see ! 

The haughty British tyrant upon our freeborn 

land 
The fetters of his thraldom in vain he strove to 

bind. 
Up rose the people, and like an angry sea, 
They gathered to the struggle, the struggle of the 

free! 

Oh, Liberty ! etc. 

He sent his legioned soldiers in thousands to tread 

down 
The harvests of your fathers and to uphold his 

crown, 



The bravest of their children to slaughter he did 

doom, 
And with the torch and faggot their smiling homes 

consume. 

Oh, Liberty ! etc. 



But like the distant thunder when storm clouds loom 

around. 
The war-cry of the people, it shook the solid 

ground. 
From each hill and valley, and from the lonely 

stream. 
They gathered to do battle for the gallant old 

thirteen. 

Oh, Liberty ! etc. 



George Washington, he led them to triumph and 

renown. 
Till in the dust they trampled the British lion 

down. 
They drove them from the hill-tops, the soldiers 

of the free, 
They drove them from the valleys into the foaming 

sea. 

Oh, Liberty ! etc. 
30 



At Bunker Hill they showed them how free-born 
men could stand, 

At Lexington and Concord how sharp was free- 
dom's brand; 

At Monmouth and at Trenton, and Saratoga too, 

At Stony Point and Princeton, and Cowpen's field 
of blue. 

Oh, Liberty ! etc. 



AN EXORCISM 

(Addressed to the foul fiend of sickness) 

By the curling mists of morn. 
By the dew-drops on the lawn. 
By the songs of summer birds. 
By the lowing of the herds. 
By the green and silent leaves. 
By the golden harvest sheaves. 
By the breath of infant flowers. 
And by the hush of twilight hours. 

Begone ! Begone ! 

By the flow of shining streams. 

By the moonlight's broken beams, 

By the echoes of forgotten strains. 

And by the songs we hear in dreams ; 
31 



By the quiet midnight stars, 
Gleaming through my prison bars, 
By sleepless nights and dreary days. 
And by the hope that still betrays. 

Begone ! Begone ! 

By the queenly grace of C, 
By the loveliness of D, 

By M a's high-born charms. 

And by L a's ivory arms ; 

By the sparkling wit of N, 

And W's smile that asketh " when ?" 

By the glorious charm that lies 

In fair S a's sparkling eyes. 

I charge thee to begone ! 



ANOTHER EXORCISM 

By lonely knight in tower forgotten, 

By black despair of hope begotten, 

By maiden's cold that cruelly deny 

The only spell that vengeful demons try ; 

By unsaid vows that still are broken, 

And by each withered per j ured token ; 

By icy hearts and eyes of stone, 

And by the friend that smiles when you are gone ; 

By frantic sights and dreams of horror. 

And by the fool that fondly trusts to-morrow ; 

By all the malice of your mortal foeman. 

And by the Clytemnestra heart of woman. 

Avaunt ! Avaunt ! 



TO A LADY WHO SENT HIM A BUNCH 
OF FLOWERS IN HIS SICKNESS 

God's blessing on thy gentle hand ! 

That to beguile my weary hours 
Makes thee unconsciously to stand 

By my lone couch, disguised in flowers ; 
Thy presence fills the perfumed air. 

Thy beauty blooms in every rose. 

Thy smile is on each blossom fair 

And from each leaf thy sweetness flows. 
33 



LINES TO S. 

Starless and cold my lonely path had wound 
O'er boisterous seas, through gloomy depths pro- 
found, 
Perplexed with woe — by shadows led astray — 
Had'st thou not dawned upon my darkened way, 
In pity smiled upon my shipwrecked life, 
And blest with love the holy name of wife. 



LINES TO MRS. E. M. 

(In reply to an inquiry why I looked at her) 

Why seek the flowers the risen sun, 

Why turns the magnet to the pole. 
Why do streamlets to the rivers run. 

And rivers to the ocean roll.? 
A mystic power — a hidden spell — 

All things inanimate control. 
Why should I then seek words to tell 

The untaught instinct of the soul. 



34 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF 
THE COUNTESS BENTIVOGLIO. 

When years have winged their silent flight, 

And memory, hke a pensive maid. 
Shall weep amid the scenes once bright. 

O'er wliich through flowers her footsteps strayed ; 
When youth's bright dreams are vanished all, 

And manhood's burning noon is past ; 
When wintry snows upon my temples fall, 

And evening shades are thickening fast. 
Oh, let me then but dream of thee. 

As now thou art in beauty's bloom. 
Let me but hear, in fancy's ear. 

The voice I heard in years long flown. 
And calm and placid as a summer sea 

Beneath Italian skies serene. 
The twilight of my days shall be, 

Oh, lovely, gentle, sweet Pauline ! 



35 



ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE CHILD 

" That through the grave and gate of death we may pass 
to our joyful resurrection." — Collect for Easter-Even. 

Arise, O gloomy Death ! unto thy realm 
Of dreamless peace we come, and in our arms 
The hoarded treasure of our love we bring. 
Within thy crowded courts no purer form 
Hath passed since He who slept in Joseph's tomb 
Trod with majestic march thy voiceless paths. 
Behold, how in marmoreal beauty now, 
With hope's bright seal upon his baby brow. 
And stainless flowers upon his tideless breast, 
And that familiar smile upon his lips 
Congealed, he lies and waiteth for the dawn. 
The cypress shade no terror hath for him. 
Nor yet the stillness of thy dreary way. 
On us, on us the mists and darkness fall. 
But he, in innocence and truth secure, 
Shall tread the highway which the King hath made. 
Fling wide thine ebon gate, O Death ! and through 
Thy portal dim, oh, gently bear our sleeping child ; 
That waking, he may turn and smile on thee. 
From where in Paradise he walks with God. 



36 



TO THE LADY WHO REFUSED A LOCK 
OF HAIR TO EXORCISE THE FOUL 
FIEND OF SICKNESS 

Maiden with the locks of bright and crisped gold, 

Who hast thine eighteenth blooming summer told, 

A weary knight, in dark and lonesome tower. 

Condemned in pain to languish hour by hour, 

By dark demoniac spells harassed and torn, 

To sorrow doomed from night to weary morn, 

In pity craved thee graciously to give 

That which alone could hence the demons drive. 

Imploringly he craved a ringlet fair 

From out the tresses of thy braided hair. 

And told thee still that by that magic spell 

He could exorcise all the fiends of hell, 

And to his pallid frame restore once more 

The vigor he displayed in lists of yore. 

But thou did'st coldly turn thee from his prayer, 

And bade him perish in his lonely lair ; 

With pride and scorn and cold averted eye 

You left him in his prison-house alone to die. 

Lady with the locks of glistening gold, 

Hast thou not heard the legend sad and old 

Of her who in the gray old feudal time 

Dwelt by the waters of the rolling Rhine.'' 

Of her whose hard and cold and cruel heart 

Proudly, disdainfully refused to part 

37 



With what a faithful knight did humbly crave, 
And how she spurned him like a thralled slave, 
And how amid the rivers rushing foam 
She standeth now a cold and breathless stone? 



WORDS ACCOMPANYING A GLASS OF 
ICED PUNCH 

(Sent to a young lady who was sick) 

Drink, weary pilgrim, from this wayside spring. 
And if its waves refresh thy gentle soul, 
A shrine shall o'er its crystal bed be built ; 
And with returning summer's golden hours 
Fresh garlands on its mossy marge be hung. 
While o'er its babbling flood, with vines o'ergrown, 
A rustic stone shall to each eye proclaim, 
" Drink, weary soul !" and bless the gelid stream 
That gave an angel to her friends again. 



38 



"REMEMBER NOW THY CREATOR IN 
THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH," ETC. 

While yet the sunrise on thy morning path 

Its drifting cloud of golden incense throws, 
While youth's clear spring no bitter flavor hath, 

And thornless blooms the white unspotted rose ; 
While yet the hours, with footsteps soft and fleet. 

Bear thee along from morn to joyous even; 
While amaranthine hopes around thy feet 

Hang thick with buds that bloom alone in heav'n ; 
Or ever yet the evil days have come 

When clouds shall hang upon thy dreary way. 
Or ever yet the race of life is run 

And darkness gathers on thy closing day. 
Before the golden bowl which God hath hung 

Fast by the fountain of Eternal Hope, 
Forever from its silver cord hath swung. 

And on the marble floor of Death is broke. 

Remember Him! 



39 



THE CANARY'S DIRGE 

Songless and cold ! poor exile from Atlantic isles, 

Thy golden plumes still flushed with tropic light, 
Alas ! that in a stranger land, 'mid captive wiles 

Thy life of song, so sweet, should take its flight ; 
That thou shouldst lead a captive's weary life 

Thou free and happy child of upper air ; 
That thou shouldst know the sad and homesick 
strife 

Of the crushed heart that pines for freedom in 
despair ! 

Say, amid thy dreary, sad, and sick decline. 

Didst thou not dream of sisters sweet, whose 
voices low 
The echoes woke, of lands beyond the rolling brine ? 

Did no sad dream of mother's tuneful woe. 
And of thy wild and gladsome island home 

Steal like summer twilight o'er thy heavy eye, 
Bidding thee, in sweet and plaintive accents, 
« Come," 

And on thy spirit-wings to homeward fly? 

Yet still more hapless might thy lot have been. 

Thou bird of cheerful song and golden crest ! 

Had ruder eyes thy modest beauties seen. 

Had ruder hands thy graceful form caressed. 
40 



A gentle jailer kept thy prison door, sweet bird, 
And as thy varied praise e'en to thy face she 
dared to tell, 
They who had thy loud and cheerful carol heard 
Had said, thou wert content in such sweet bonds 
to dwell. 



THE CANARY'S RETURN 

From the depths of far Atlantic isles, 

Embosom'd in the emerald sea, 
Where one long summer blooms and smiles, 

And flowers perennial strew the lea ; 
From the sounding woods, and valleys wild. 

That live and bloom in the spirit-land. 
By thy loved memory still beguiled, 

I turn again to thy sweet hand. 

Though summer gilds their rolling year. 

And flowers that fade not gem the vale ; 
Though sisters sweet and mother dear 

The loved and absent one bewail ; 
Amid the glories of that spirit-land, 

The sweet savannas of the deep blue sea, 
I miss, sweet maid, thy tender hand. 

And turn, loved one, again to thee ! 



41 



LINES SENT TO MRS. ARTHUR MIDDLE- 
TON AND MRS. EDWARD MIDDLETON 
WITH A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS 

These wild flowers from the lonely dell, 

And garden-glories from the twin parterre, 
With what prophetic voice they tell 

The changeful hue of all things here ! 
To-day we bloom in friendship's hallowed light. 

To-day we live in hope's bright dawn, 
To-day our paths with flowers are bright. 

To-morrow friends and hopes and flowers are 
gone! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO PROFESSOR 
AGASSIZ 

To tread the secret paths of Nature's walks. 

And through the dark and labyrinthine maze 

Of breathing things to track her footsteps still ; 

To seek the hidden springs of conscious life. 

And with mysterious progress wander on 

Through all the changes of its devious course ; 

From off^ the wisdom of its inner world 

To tear the outward veil that closely shrouds 

From human gaze its well-concerted plan, 

49 



And hides the curious secret of its germ ; 

To re-create the long-forgotten hosts 

That in creation's dim and early dawn 

On earth's green bosom found a peaceful home, 

And from the ashes of primeval things 

The story erf^ perished race to write. 

To build anew the fabric of a world 

Whose awful forms, like scattered wrecks, 

In dee^ and unremembered darkness lie ; 

To find in all things order, and in all 

The wisdom and benevolence that speaks 

The boundless power and mighty hand of God: 

To this thy years of happy toil are given. 

Great teacher of the secret ways of Him 

Whose thoughts we read upon the blazoned wing 

Of happy insect tribes, and birds that soar 

On joyous wing up to the opal skies. 

And forms that range the unfathomed floods, 

And all the shapes innumerable that dwell 

Upon its peopled coasts, and in the mien 

And godlike aspect of his creature man ! 



43 



A VALENTINE 

As sailors, out upon the lonely sea, 

Descry afar their loved and native shore, 
And from the thraldom of the waves set free, 

In sadness pine to tread its hills once more. 
So doomed upon thy beauty from afar 

To gaze, with beating heart and longing eye. 
Love wages still with fear a constant war 

Lest new-born hope should blossom but to die. 

As homesick travellers o'er the desert sands 

Hear, floating down the thick and burning air. 
The songs of birds from bright and happy lands 

That wing their flight to forests green and fair, 
So doomed upon thine accents from afar 

To dream, with beating heart and longing eye, 
Love wages still with fear a constant war 

Lest new-bom hopes should only bloom to die. 

Oh, could I breathe into thy listening ear 

The story of a strong, impassioned soul ; 
Oh, could I to thy gentle side draw near 

And all the secrets of my heart unroll ; 
Oh, could I, seated by thy side the while. 

But tell thee how from day to day 
I only live in thy sweet smile 

And hate the night that snatches thee away. 
44 



Oh, could my burning lips but truly tell 

How deeply, fondly, I am only thine ! 
Oh, could a stranger's faithful heart reveal 

What heavenly bliss it were to call thee mine; 
Ah, then perhaps some answering strain, 

Deep in thy guileless heart concealed. 
Might whisper that I had not loved in vain. 

Nor had in vain that love revealed. 



ANOTHER VALENTINE 

Break from the throng of human moths 
That flutter idly round thy way, 

Whose worthless homage dies like froth 
Of billows in some shallow bay, 

That burst in noisy nothings on the shore 

And vanish into empty air once more. 

Unto thy noble self be true. 

And scorn the shallow heart, sweet Ann, 
That like a stagnant pool reflects 

The follies of a brainless man ; 

Oh, let not specious dross deceive thy sight. 

All is not solid gold that glitters bright. 
45 . 



Thy heart is noble, and thy fate, 
Ignobly linked, should never be 

With one who can but idly prate 

In worthless words and phrases free. 

" Respice finem!" be the motto thine. 

E'en tho' perchance you scorn my 

Valentine. 



TO 



As in some dim secluded vale 

By human footsteps seldom trod 
The primrose blooms in beauty pale, 

Sole mistress of the lonely sod. 
So in my heart's secluded cell. 

Unseen by vain or vulgar eye, 
Fond dreams of thee forever dwell, 

And hopes that still refuse to die. 

As in some lonely mountain dell 
Wild roses drink the morning dew, 

And to the listening planets tell 

Their sorrows sad and passion true. 

So in my heart's concealed domain 
Thine image dwelleth all unseen ; 

So answers back my soul to thine. 

Its peerless flower — its throned queen. 
46 



As golden sands that rest unknown 

'Neath some dark river's lonely waves, 
Or pearls that glitter, thickly strown, 

In ocean's green and silent caves, 
So deeply buried in my soul 

Thine image dwells in living light, 
Though round it earth's dull waters roll. 

Still unrevealed to mortal sight. 

Thy beauty fell upon my lonely way 

Like pensive music in a dream, 
Or sunshine of an April day 

Upon a dark tempestuous stream ; 
And still refusing to depart. 

Thou buildest there thy stainless throne, 
Filling with joy the trembling heart 

That beats responsive to thine own. 



47 



LINES TO MRS. K. 

(With a copy of " Light on Little Graves") 

When o'er the withered flowers that sweetly grew 

Beside the pathway of our early years, 
Forever to her buried treasures true 

Pale memory sheds her bitterest tears ; 
When on the promise of our early years 

Heart-sickness falls and quickly turns to dust 
The hopes that grew, twin-children with our fears ; 

When in the prime of life we feel its rust, 
And standing still in cold and dumb despair 

We darkly dream of joys forever fled. 
While still upon the thick and heavy air 

There come the voices of our early dead. 
Oh, then how brightly dawns the heavenly light 

That wraps the future in its golden waves. 
That sheds its lustre o'er our cheerless night, 

And gilds with glory still their little graves. 



48 



LINES TO A LADY ON HER NINETEENTH 
BIRTHDAY 

November's withered leaves around thy feet, 

Like banners torn and trailed, are strewn once 

more. 
Autumnal skies once more above thy head 
In dreamy beauty bend, and in the air 
The winds once more a solemn music make, 
As if they sang a requiem for the days. 
The long bright summer days, which thou hast 

known. 

For nineteen years the scented breath of Spring 

Hath wantoned in thy flowing auburn hair, 

And turned to roses on thy maiden cheek 

The buds that in thy childhood blossomed there. 

For nineteen rolling years hast thou beheld 

The early primrose born upon the lea. 

And daffodils, whose lives so swiftly passed. 

That when returning from thy morning stroll, 

They stood, like Niobe, in tears amid 

Their blossoms fair but pale and scattered forms. 

For nineteen blooming summers hast thou heard 

The matins of the thrush, and listened oft, 

At drowsy eve, to the sweet hum of praise 

That rose from all the insect tribes of earth 

To Him on high, the Lord of Sabaoth. 

And thou hast looked upon the garnered grain 

49 



Once more, beheld once more the garlands red 
That Autumn hangs upon the sighing woods, 
And heard once more the blackbird's morning song, 
As, sailing through the misty sea of air. 
He sought the sunshine of a brighter clime. 
How many hours have winged their happy flight 
Since first upon thy wondering gaze there broke 
The light of red November skies ; since then 
How many dreams of childish joy have wove. 
In fancy's loom, their bright and golden woof. 
How many tears on childhood's rosy cheek. 
Like dew-drops on the morning-glory stood. 
In girlhood's clear and cloudless prime how oft 
Hath woman's life to thy young fancy seemed 
A path among the overhanging hills. 
Which led to summits bright though distant far. 
Where thou wert fain to climb ; and now that thou 
The jewelled crown of maidenhood dost wear. 
And standest where the branching roads divide, 
And backward look upon the little path 
So narrow, yet so fringed with flowers, which 
Thou hast thus far trod, and forward to the 
Wide and open road that leads, amid 
Alternate shade and sun, by frowning woods 
And steep ascents and smooth sweet plains, where 

flow 
The tranquil waters which reflect, as from 
The skies, the graces and the full-blown charms 

50 



Of perfect womanhood, — ah ! who shall tell 

The fortunes of thy future way, or say 

At what dim point upon its upward steep 

Thy gentle footprints shall be lost to view, 

And by thy fellow pilgrims seen no more. 

The time shall come, oh, maiden full of hope, 

When, all unseen by thee, the primrose and 

The daffodil shall bloom in pride again. 

And in their April days a thousand flowers 

Shall flutter in the early breath of Spring ; 

When Summer with his sheaves and golden crown 

Shall pass in regal splendor by, and thou 

No more behold his bannered pomp, or hear 

The swelling music of his lordly march ; 

When Autumn, in his crimson plumes, for thee 

No more shall dress his forest children strong. 

And white-haired Winter, in his snowy cowl, 

No more before thine eyes, like patriarch 

Of an hundred years, shall slowly move ; 

When, all unknown to thee shall be the bloom 

Of early violets, and the rustling sound 

Of brown November's sere and withered leaves. 

To-day, as from a starting-post anew, 

Thou takest up thy pilgrim staff" again ; 

To-day, like her of old whose banner streamed 

Victorious from the walls of Orleans, 

Thou buck] est on thy woman's armor 

For the field of life ; bright skies bend o'er thee, 

51 



And happy omens gird thee all around. 
Go forth ! in beauty and in innocence, 
Still fix thine eye on that eternal star 
That changeless shines forever in the sky, 
That when at last upon thy birthday morn 
November's withered leaves shall sadly fall. 
Where thou in fearless faith shalt lay thee down, 
Some friendly hand above thy dust may write. 
Through this triumphal arch she passed to Heaven. 



TO J. 

Joyless my way and dark the brightest day 
Until beside the murmuring sea, 

Like Aphrodite on the sands at play, 
I saw thee in thy beauty proud and free. 

And felt how sweet were life to live with thee ! 



52 



DAGUERREOTYPES 

CAROLINE 

A face to be remembered in a dream, 

The chiselled features of a Roman maid, 
With dark-brown hair and hght-blue eyes, that 
seem 

As though from some wild German home be- 
trayed. 
Composure sleeps upon her forehead broad, 

Like placid moonlight on the drifted snow. 
While prudence at her lips keeps watch and ward, 

And on her cheeks expiring sunsets glow. 
Queenly and proud upon a silver throne 

Her reason sits, in majesty arrayed, 
While fancy pines in solitude alone. 

As e'en to plume her untried wings afraid. 
Her judgment strong and bright as Spanish steel 

Thrice tempered in the ice-brook's freezing 
source. 
And Atlas sooner from his seat shall reel 

Than flowers beguile her from her beaten course. 
A heart serene as Northern skies that bend 

O'er lands which coldly slumber 'neath the pole, 
Yet proves forever faithful to its friend, 

Tho' passionless and still its currents roll. 
53 



EMMA 

A face that in a chequered sunshine sleeps, 

Where smiles are thickly sown as stars on high, 
O'er whose bright noon of peace there sometimes 
creeps 

A shade like summer clouds upon the sky ; 
A mind whose lights and shadows come and go 

Like autumn sunshine on the distant hills, 
Whose thoughts are changeful as the summer glow 

That sparkles on the breast of Alpine rills ; 
And yet, when weighty things its powers absorb. 

Shines calmly, clearly forth like some bright star. 
Then seen no more, a wandering changeful orb. 

But pours o'er all its constant light from far, 
A heart whose restless passions rise and fall 

Like trampling waves upon the shifting sand. 
Yet which, at life's more grave and solemn call, 

Grows still again at duty's high command. 



54 



TO WITH A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS 

Sweet flowers, they say, are voiceless words, 

And hide within their blossoms fair 
A mystic language never heard 

Or breathed upon the tell-tale air. 
For in the heart's deep quiet cell 

There often lives and reigns, sweet maid, 
A thought too wild for words to tell, 

To be by flowers alone betrayed. 



LINES WRITTEN IN A PRAYER-BOOK 

Here, as in some sacred and enduring ark. 

The Church, the severed bride of Christ, hath writ 

The record of her strong immortal love 

To Him, her dear and absent Lord ; and here 

She standeth by the wicket gate that leads 

By narrow paths unto her distant home, 

And to the passers-by, through falling tears. 

She showeth one by one the footprints deep 

Wherein the sorrow-laden went, and all 

The rugged way through which He trod 

From Earth to Heaven — from Bethlehem to God. 

55 



LINES ADDRESSED TO THE COUNTESS 
PAULINA BENTIVOGLIO ON HER DE- 
PARTURE FOR ROME, WITH A DEAD 
BUTTERFLY ENCLOSED 

O gentle sister ! Sweet Pauline ! 

Like this bright child of happy air, 
Whose sunny flight and golden sheen 

Are perished soon like all things fair. 
My heart to-day is dark and chill. 

And through each madly throbbing vein 
There runs a wild mysterious thrill, 

While tear-drops fall like summer rain. 
How shall my soul from memory flee, 

Or lonely bear its anguish keen ; 
How shall I say farewell to thee. 

My sister dear, O sweet Pauline ! 



56 



LINES INSCRIBED ON THE WALLS OF 
HIS ROOM IN BURLINGTON 

Stranger, whoe'er thou art, whate'er thy name, 
The child of fortune, or unknown to fame, 
Whose wandering steps and weary feet 
Have found at length this calm and safe retreat. 
Know that before thee one hath hither strayed 
Whose soul was weary of the world's parade. 
Its hollow heart, its falsehood and its pride. 
Its siren promise and deceit beside. 
Who found at last, beside this humble hearth, 
What most of all things he had sought on earth, — 
A beauteous form, all gentleness and love. 
With goodness that belongs to saints above. 



67 



CLOUDS 

The sky hath clouds that come and go 
With a wild motion to and fro, 
Spreading their shadows broad and grim 
O'er lowland field and mountain stream ; 
Strewing the sea with ashes gray, 
Turning to night the shining day. 
And still they come and still they go, 
With a wild motion to and fro, 
With straggling beams of light between, 
Making the darkness darker seem. 



The soul hath clouds that come and go 

With a wild motion to and fro, 

Spreading their shadows broad and grim 

O'er all the shining realm within ; 

Strewing the heart with ashes pale. 

Darkening its sun with dusky veil. 

And still they come and still they go, 

With a wild motion to and fro. 

With straggling beams of hope between, 

Making its darkness darker seem. 
58 



Heart-land hath skies of deeper blue 

Than paradisal climes e'er knew, 

And fields that glow with fairer flowers 

Than ever bloomed in tropic bowers ; 

And streams, that in the noon-tide sun. 

Like diamonds sparkle as they run. 

But o'er its sheen and beauty all 

The clouds — the clouds, they still must fall ; 

Must ever come and ever go 

With a wild motion to and fro. 



LINES TO MY DAUGHTER ON HER 
BIRTHDAY 

A little sail upon a peaceful sea, 
An azure sky, and sunlight on the lea — 
So glides thy tiny bark by childhood's shore, 
A gentle breeze behind, the ocean all before. 
Protecting angels guide thee o'er the pathless wave ! 
And God's strong arm around thee to succor and to 
save. 



59 



SUNSHINE 

(An answer to "Clouds") 
I. 

The world is made of light and shade, 

As full of joy as full of sorrow; 
Then why, while yet the storm is stayed, 

Think we of clouds to-morrow? 
Why not enjoy the gifts that God 

Hath dealt with lavish hand. 
The gifts of health and youth and love, 

A threefold golden band? 



II. 

The blackest cloud must pass ere long 

And fly before the sun's bright ray. 
The darkest hour is just ere dawn 

Unlocks the shining gates of day. 
Then why not look beyond the clouds. 

Where still the sunshine gleameth bright, 
And when they make thy way seem dark. 

Remember that beyond is light. 

S. D. T. 



60 



TO S. D. T. 

(With some wild flowers gathered in the mountains of 
Lycoming) 

When in the self-same native glen, 

Where first their infant breath they drew, 
These modest flowers shall bloom again 

And drink again the mountain dew. 
When on Lycoming's lonely hills 

The tall and antler'd deer shall roam, 
And as he stoops to drink the rills 

That burst around his feet in foam, 
His glistening eye shall meet once more 

Upon the bank of creeping thyme 
The self-same flowers he saw of yore. 

When queenly May was in her prime. 
Forget me then ! 



61 



A SICK-BED PSALM 

O Thou, the Lord of all the rolling year, 

Whose hand unfolds the timid blooms of May, 
And on November's chaplets brown and sere 

Writeth the changes of our chequered day; 
O Thou, whose truth and love and power 

On all the pages of our Life we read, 
Whose mercy watcheth o'er each drooping flower. 

Whose staffs alone can help us in our need. 
Teach us in meek humility to live. 

To read aright the volume of thy ways. 
Silently to suffer and believe. 

Or only speak to lisp thy God-like praise. 



TO J. 

Joy to thee, thou Queen of all my soul ! 

Upon thy path may nought but sunshine rest ! 
Like laughing seas that round some island roll 

I bear thee ever in my loving heart. 
And still rejoice to own thy sweet control. 



62 



CAROLINE 

(A Birthday Ode) 

Sweet cowslips from the meadow bring, 

And myrtle blossoms from the grove, 
White lilies — children of the Spring — 

And roses soft that blush with love. 
Bring fairest flowers on earth that bloom, 

And with their leaves a garland twine 
For her, the child of regal June, 

His fairest flower — Sweet Caroline ! 

Let dew-drops gem each bending spray. 

And larks proclaim at early dawn 
The golden footsteps of the day 

On which fair Caroline was born. 
Let thrushes sing at sultry noon. 

And music fill the day's decline, 
For 'tis the twenty-fifth of June, 

The birthday of fair Caroline ! 

Let summer clouds their snowy sails 

In azure seas serenely spread. 

And shining streams through quiet vales 

With soft and noiseless footsteps tread. 
63 



Let gentle airs, that idly stray 

O'er shady banks of creeping thyme, 

With fragrance ifiU the livelong day, 
And breathe the name of Caroline ! 

A festal song for royal June ! 

His forest throne and crown of leaves, 
The glory of his sultry noon, 

The silent splendor of his eve. 
A festal wreath — a festal crown 

Of bright immortal flowers entwine 
For her, the daughter of his pride, 

His fairest flower — Sweet Caroline ! 



LINES TO H. N. 

Blow west, O wind, o'er many a snow-clad plain, 
Blow east, o'er many a league of dreary sea. 

Blow south, and shake the orange-blooms again. 
Then blow forever from the north to me ! 

Blow from the east with beating storm and rain. 
Blow from the west the clouds that seek the sea, 

Blow orange odors from the southern plain, 
Then blow forever from the north to me ! 



64 



AN EPITAPH ON A FAVORITE SCOTCH 
DOG CALLED "MAJOR" 

Moritur Major quern nemo 
minus dilexit quod non ma- 
jor fuit, cuique fortuna 
venire dedit ad maximam 
aetatem carium — 
Mortuus, 
VIII Id. Apr. 
MDCCCLXXIX 
^Et. Octodecim annos. 



ANOTHER EPITAPH ON "MAJOR" 

Hie jacet Major, quo nullus 
unquam canis fidelior fuit — 
longe felix vixit, felix mori- 
tur. 



65 



TO CHARLOTTE G., OF BOSTON, ACCOM- 
PANYING A BOW DROPPED BY MISS G. 

[These lines accompanied a bow dropped by Miss G. on 
the floor. Miss G., during her short stay in Philadelphia, 
did not hesitate often to express her dissatisfaction at every- 
thing she found there.] 

Dear Charley, we are grieved to learn 

That in that filthy Quaker town. 
Where now you make your brief sojourn, 

Your heart to zero has gone down. 
We know how hard it is to stay 

Where all you see is but so so, 
And lest with grief you should be gray 

We send you on a Boston heau. 



TO 



Here's a " Happy New Year," Miss Annie, to you 
And all other ladies as gentle and true. 
The old one is gone to his dull quiet snooze, 
And the young one this morning " stepped into his 

shoes." 
He's a nice little fellow, with red rosy cheeks, 
But he'll be older somewhat in a very few weeks. 
Altho' he has now scarce any beard on his chin. 
Still ere he's much older he may yet " take you in." 

66 



He's a baby full grown, yet so cunning and sly 
You'll scarcely see anything " green in his eye ;" 
And yet he's so modest you'd imagine, no doubt. 
That his venerable mama scarce " knew he was 

out." 
Be cautious, Miss Annie, don't trust him too far, 
For he's not a bit better than his old musty Papa ; 
And altho' he may dance to a different tune. 
You'll find him at last the " same old coon." 
His face is as fair as the new fall'n snow, 
But his heart is as black as an African crow ; 
He'll promise everything as " nice as mince pie," 
And yet in the end put you off with a lie. 
So pray. Sweetest Annie, don't trust him too much. 
For his vows, like his snowflakes, are gone " at a 

touch." 
If he treats you politely, pray treat him the same; 
If he shows any rudeness, just show him you're 

" game." 
If on any mischief you see he is bent. 
Just smile on him sweetly — I'm sure he'll relent. 
For with all his bad habits some good ones are 

mixed, 
In his love for sweet ladies immovably fixed. 
And if for a moment he plotted you wrong. 
At the smile on your lip he'd " up stakes and be 

gone." 



67 



But here I must end my verse Hudibrastic, 
Which, altho' in its structure so very elastic, 
To so prosy a length is already drawn 
That I fear very much it will bring on a yawn. 
You'll pardon, I know, this fantastical rhyme 
When you've found out the author (in progress of 

time). 
And if you should not, I'll vow in this way 
Not to sin any more till Valentine's Day. 
Farewell, then. Sweet Annie, forgive me, I pray, 
And we'll " talk it all over" some dull rainy day. 
In those happy new years that still are to come, 
All brighter by far than the years that are gone. 
Those Happy New Years, Sweet Annie and true. 
That dance through my slumbers when I dream of 

you. 



LAKE GEORGE 

There is a clear and bright blue lake 
Embosom'd in the rocky north. 

No murmur doth its silence break. 
As on its waves we sally forth. 

The mountain bird floats high aloft 
Above his wild and craggy nest, 

And gazes from his towering throne 

Upon the torrent's sparkling breast. 
68 



While far beneath, in hght and shade, 

The bright green valleys frown and smile. 
And in the bed sweet nature made 

The lake sleeps soft and sweet the while. 
O'er many a green and lovely wild 

The golden sun doth gayly smile, 
But 'mid them all he doth not break, 

As on his race he sallies forth, 
On fairer scene or sweeter lake 

Than the lake of the rocky north. 



AN ANSWER TO MISS LANDON'S " LOVE 
IN A COTTAGE" 

They tell me that you smile too oft 

Upon my lone and solitary way, 
That gentle Avords and glances soft, 

Too frequent given, are thrown away. 
They say that frowns should sometimes cloud 

The face where love and kindness always reign ; 
That pride and scorn should sometimes shroud 

The heart that ne'er hath given pain ; 
That lover's looks, like April skies, should change — 

Now clothed in light, now robed in storm ; 

That glances cold and actions strange 

Should vex and wring the heart forlorn. 
69 



Ah, little do such wise ones dream 

That true love ne'er can falsehood seem, 

That where the heart hath stored its wealth 

There is no pride or love of self ; 

That lovers' looks would scorn to feign 

Feelings that would true love pain ; 

That vain deceit and empty art 

Dwell but in the hollow heart ; 

That Love's serene and holy light 

Is not the meteor of a summer's night, 

But sheds its constant light afar. 

In Life's blue Heaven the brightest star ! 



A BLESSING 

Peace be within those tranquil walls, 

And health and comfort bless their store; 

The pomp that dwells in marble halls 
Might sigh for these, nor hope for more. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE 

Here to-day and gone to-morrow. 
First full of joy, then full of sorrow; 
So bear we through this mortal strife 
The trophies and the scars of life. 
70 



LIFE 

Oh, life is but a dream, 
A sunbeam's play, 

A flower on a stream 
Passing away. 

A song in the air, 

A bridal gay, 
So sweet in its coming. 

But passing away. 

A bird on the wing, 

A meteor's ray, 
A solemn mysterious thing 

Passing away. 



THE ICEBERG 

Look out ! look out ! and see 

A castle on the deep, 
A floating castle, high and strong, 

With buttress huge and bastion steep. 
No warder treads its silent tower, 

No guard keeps watch below. 
No voice within its lofty halls 

Save the ocean's ceaseless flow. 
71 



Its walls are high, its walls are strong, 

While arch on arch lies piled on high, 
Its awful gate is open flung, 

But no victor draweth nigh. 
No trumpet shakes its vaulted roof, 

No banner to the breeze is flung, 
No prancing steeds within its court, 

No steel-clad men its aisles among. 
No minstrel's harp beneath the tower 

Breathes forth its wild and plaintive notes, 
No minstrel's voice upon the air 

In soft and varied numbers floats. 
No clamb'ring vines steal o'er the tower, 

Or wreathe their arms around its walls, 
The sea-weed clings unto its base, 

And from each arch in clusters falls. 
No eagle buildeth here his nest 

And plumes his wings for distant shores; 
The sea-bird screameth 'round its base. 

Then high above its rampart soars. 
No mortal reared its giant walls 

Above the deep and rolling tide. 
No cunning artist carved its stones, 

Or built its portals huge and wide. 
By fairy hands its towers were raised 

From out the cold and sluggish tide, 
And voiceless forms their revels kept 

Within its arches cold and wide. 
72 



The flashing hght of polar skies 

For ages on its grandeur gleamed, 
In silent splendor on its pillars fell, 

And through its ragged casement stream'd. 
A thousand days, a thousand years, 

In cold sublimity it stood ; 
A thousand storms its turrets shook. 

And lash'd its base in angry mood ; 
Till, from the silence of the frozen zone — 

The endless winter of the north — 
A fairy fabric white and huge, 

It broke its way and floated forth. 
And still as e'er it saileth on, 

A silver castle on the silent sea. 
No landmark marks its onward course. 

As o'er the waves it floateth free. 
In tropic climes its turrets rise. 

As fair as 'neath the Arctic sky. 
And fragrant winds around it moan 

And through its ruined arches sigh. 
Oh, woe unto the hapless ship 

That in its swift and gallant flight 
The castle of the ocean met 

In the still and voiceless night. 
No warning broke from out its walls. 

No beacon from its portals shone, 
The struggling ship with terror reeled. 

Then plunged and sank in depths unknown. 
73 



A thousand fathoms o'er them roll, 

A thousand stars keep watch on high, 
The tempest breaks above their heads, 

The thunder rolls unheeded by. 
They'll dream no more, they'll dream no more 

Of singing lark and woodbine bower. 
In sea-green caves they slumber now, 

To wake, to weep, to dream no more. 



THE BURIAL OF THE OLD YEAR 

Hark ! the midnight bell is tolling 
With a deep and hollow sound; 

And a solemn murmur rolling 
The earth and sea around. 

With solemn mien from far they come. 

And slow and measured tread, 
The spectres of the years long gone 

To the burial of the dead. 

In thronging groups from far they come, 
With furrowed cheeks and locks of snow ; 

And a low and solemn dirge they chant. 
As to the open grave they go. 

74 



Dust to dust is the doom of all 

That dwell beneath the spreading sky ; 

The pale white shroud and sable pall 
Must wrap them all both low and high. 

The King upon his blazing throne, 
And the lone shepherd of the vale, 

Where'er their lot in life be cast. 
Must pass at last within the veil. 

The walls that stood a thousand years, 

And braved the strength of time and storm, 

Must mingle with their native dust. 
And reassume their olden form. 

The flower that smiled within the glen. 
The dwelling of the roving bee. 

Must droop and die ere day is gone, 
Or twilight gathers o'er the lea. 

The oak that spread its giant arms 
Athwart the still and starry sky. 

Must bend unto its parent earth. 
And on its bosom prostrate lie. 

The old man, with his locks so white. 

And the child with flaxen curls. 
Must reach at last the silent land. 

Where death his dusky flag unfurls. 

75 



To doom, to doom, we hasten all ! 

As all have done in ages past, 
Through a thousand broad and crowded ways 

We go, but reach the goal at last." 

The grave is reached, the lonely grave 

Of the old and careworn year. 
The sands are dropped on the coffin lid. 

All moist and damp with the falling tear. 

No trophy at his head they place, 
And at his feet no record stone ; 

His pillow is the driven snow. 

His fun'ral dirge the wild wind's moan. 

In thronging groups away they stalk. 

With furrowed cheeks and locks of snow. 

And a low and solemn hymn they chant. 
As from the silent grave they go. 

" Sleep, brother, in thy lowly bed ! 

The wintry wind in vain shall seek 
To reach thee in thy resting place, 

Or break thy slumbers long and deep. 

" The summer flowers shall blossom soon 

Above thy cold and snow-white head. 

And summer winds a requiem sing. 

For the old and honored dead." 
76 



THE VOICE OF THE SPRING-TIME 

I come ! I come ! from the flowery South, 
With the voice of song and a shout of mirth ; 
I have wandered far, I have wandered long, 
The valleys and hills of the South among ; 
On woodland and glen, on mountain and moor, 
I have smiled as I smiled in the days of yore ; 
In emerald green I have decked them forth. 
And again I turn to my home in the North. 



I have roved afar through the storied East, 
And held on her hills my solemn feast ; 
Through her cypress groves my voice was heard, 
In the music sweet of my sweetest bird; 
Each plain I have clothed in sunlight warm, 
And slumbered secure 'neath the desert palm; 
A garment of light to the sea I gave, 
And melody sweet to each rolling wave. 



O'er the isles that gem the ^gean sea 
I sported and flew with frolicsome glee ; 
'Round the ruins gray of the olden time 
Bright garlands I wove of the creeping vine ; 

77 



Ah, little they thought, who slumber beneath. 
That the warrior's plume and the victor's wreath 
Would fade like the blossoms that spring-time 

flings 
'Round the cotter's grave and the tombs of kings. 



O'er Marathon gray I walked in my pride, 

And roved o'er the plain where the bravest had 

died ; 
On the field of Platsea I laid me down. 
Under the shadows deep of old Cithaeron's frown. 
Full soundly, I ween, doth the Persian sleep, 
Where the fir-trees mourn and the wild flowers 

creep ; 
His requiem soft I sang as I lay. 
And dreamed of the glory of Greece on that day. 



O'er Italia's hills soft sunlight I poured. 

And her olive-groves bloomed wherever I trod ; 

A coronet green to the mountains I gave. 

And a robe of blue to each laughing wave ; 

With verdure I clothed each mouldering pile. 

And laughed at the pride of man the while ; 

For I thought how old Time had trampled in 

scorn 
On each beggar's hut and each kingly crown. 

78 



I come ! I come ! with the song of the thrush, 
To wake with its sweetness the morning's blush; 
To hang on the hawthorn my blossoms fair, 
And strew o'er each field my flowrets rare. 
The lark, he is up, on his heavenward flight. 
And the forest all gemm'd with diamonds bright ; 
The hills are all bathed in purple and gold. 
And the bleating of flocks is heard from the fold. 

Go forth ! go forth ! for the spring-time is come, 
And makes in the North his bright sunny home ; 
The sky is his banner — the hills his throne — 
Where in glory robed he sits all alone ; 
In the depths of the woods his footsteps are seen, 
By each moss-covered rock and each babbling 

stream ; 
And his voice is heard through each leaf-clad tree. 
In the plaint of the dove and the hum of the bee. 



79 



ARCHYTAS— A TRANSLATION 

(Horace, Carmen XXVIII, Liber I) 
Nauta. 

A little dust unto thy lifeless form refused 

Binds thee, Archjtas, to this lone Mantinian 
Shore, 
Who once all seas and lands and desert wastes wert 
used 
To measure with thy dark mysterious lore ; 
Nor did it then avail thee aught, when doomed to 
die, 
That thou had'st oft essayed, on fancy's tow'r- 
ing wings,. 
To range through all the chambers of the sky. 
And to the farthest pole explore the universe of 
things. 



Archytas umbra. 

Mock not my fate, for Pelops' sire is also dead 
Tho' guest of Gods, and Tithonus, translated 
to the skies. 

And Minos, once admitted to the secrets dread 

Of Jove himself, and Panthous' son in Orcus 

lies, 

80 



Twice thither sent, altho' with Trojan shield and 
rust 
He witness bore to other times, and still defies 
The tyrant death, who nothing conquered but his 
dust. 
One dark and gloomy night remains, my friend, 
for all, 
And once, at least, with falt'ring step, we all must 
tread 
The dismal path that ends beneath the fun'ral 
pall 
Where rest the weary footsteps of the silent dead. 
Some for the sport of cruel Mars the Furies 
send. 
Beneath th' insatiate sea the sailor finds a tomb, 

The funerals of young and old together blend, 
Proserpina, the cruel, not one forgets to doom. 
So here at length the strong south wind, that 
always waits 
On setting Orion, hath me o'erwhelmed beneath the 
roar 
Of wild lUyrian waves, while angry fates 
On wand'ring seas upborne have left me on this 
lonely shore. 
But thou some pity take, if thou a sailor be. 
And grudge not a little sand to these unburied 
bones, 
That so, whatever winds may vex th' Italian sea, 
81 



By Jove and Neptune led, through all the zones 
Thou prosperous shalt sail, and countless wealth 
obtain. 
But if perchance, neglectful of my fate forlorn, 
Impiously thou shalt from these last rites re- 
frain. 
Then shall thy line though all its distant branches 
mourn ! 
Fruitless all expiation then, nor shall thy prayers 
atone 
For this thy nameless crime. So, ere thou passest 

by, 
Altho' in haste, tarry a little space I pray. 
And lest forever on this dreary coast I lie. 

Sprinkle with a little dust this poor unburied 
clay! 

November, 1889. 



TO CHLOE— A TRANSLATION 

(Horace, 23d Ode) 

Like a young fawn in pathless mountains straying, 
Her timid mother's footsteps still delaying, 
Frightened by each trembling leaf that Spring un- 
folds, 
Alarmed by every breeze that blows across the 

wolds, 
Transfixed with terror if a lizard only glides 
From the green covert where at noon he hides, — 
So startled Chloe flies if but I chance to cross her 

path. 
As if a tiger followed, or Gaetulian Hon in his 

wrath. 
Oh, cease these vain and foolish tricks, fair maid, 
And learn no more of men to be afraid. 
The time hath come to quit your watchful mother's 

side. 
In other eyes to live, in other arms to hie. 



83 



TO LYDIA— A TRANSLATION 

(Horace, Book I., Ode VIII) 

Tell me, sweet Lydia, I adjure thee, 

By all the deities who dwell above. 
Why Sybaris no more himself can be 

Transformed and maddened by the arts of love. 
Why, patient no more of dust and sun, 

He quite forsakes the bright and sunny plain. 
Where with his mates in olden times he won 

The proudest prize of all the warlike train. 
No longer on his steed of Gallic blood, 

He prances through the admiring crowd, 
No more he battles with old Tiber's yellow flood. 

Or hears the wrestlers' plaudits long and loud. 
No more the discus by his brawny arm. 

Light as a feather to its goal is flown. 
No more the swiftly flying spear can charm, 

That far beyond its shining mark was thrown. 
More than the deadly viper's poisonous blood 

The oil which bathed his manly limbs he hates, 
And shuns the glorious field where oft he stood. 

As if beleaguered by avenging fates. 
Why hides he, Lydia, like a craven hind. 

As sea-born Thetis' son — in youth unmanned — 
In women's clothes was hid, lest fate should find 

Too soon, the hero born to scourge the Lycian 

band. 

84 



TRANSLATIONS FROM THEOCRITUS 

IDYL FIRST 

THE ARGUMENT. 

In this Idyl Thyrsis, the shepherd, and a goat- 
herd converse together. Thyrsis sings in a pas- 
toral strain of Daphnis wasting away and dying 
with love, and receives in return for this from the 
goatherd a goat which yielded her milk thrice a 
day, and a beautiful ivy goblet. 

Thyrsis. 
Sweet is the melody, O Goatherd, of this pine- 
tree which murmurs by the side of the springs, 
and sweetly do you pipe. You will bear away 
after Pan the second prize. If he shall choose the 
ram, you will receive the she-goat ; and should he 
take the female as his prize, the kid will fall to 
you. 

Goatherd. 
Still sweeter, O Shepherd, is your lay than the 
murmuring stream which falls from yonder rocks on 
high, and should the muses bear away the ewe as 
their prize, you will have the fatted lamb; and 
if they should be pleased to take the lamb, you will 

then receive the ewe, 

85 



Thy r sis. 
Will you not, O Goatherd, as you sit here in the 
midst of the Nymphs, on this sloping bank, where 
the tamarisks grow, play upon your pipe? In the 
mean time I will tend your goats. 



Goatherd. 
It is not right, Shepherd. It is not safe for 
us to play on the pipe at noontide, for we fear Pan, 
who, then wearied with the chase, is taking his re- 
pose, and is then, as you know, peevish, with wrath 
lurking in his nostrils ; but come ( for you, O 
Thyrsis, are acquainted with the woes of Daphnis, 
and are perfect in the pastoral strain). Come, let 
us sit beneath this elm, opposite the statue of 
Priapus and the Naiids, where the oaks are, and 
the shepherd's seat; and if you will but sing as 
you once sang when contending with Chromis of 
Libya, I will give you a goat which, though she 
has borne twins, is milked thrice a day; which, 
though she has two kids, is yet milked two pail- 
f uls ; and also an ivy goblet deep and polished with 
fragrant wax, having two ears and newly made, 
as yet fresh from the sculptor's hands, around 
whose brim the ivy winds on high, the ivy twined 
with chrysanthemums; around it are also twined, 
the tendrils decked with saffron fruit, and within it 

86 



is carved a lady, — some device of the gods, — a lady 
adorned with a robe and a fillet, and near her are 
two men braiding her hair, and alternately taunt- 
ing each other with words ; but these things do not 
seem to affect her, for sometimes smiling she looks 
upon this one, and at other times she turns to the 
other, and they, with eyes long swollen with love, 
toil in vain. Near this group there is also an old 
fisherman and a rock rudely sculptured, upon 
which the old man is eagerly drawing up his net 
for a cast, like one who is laboring to the utmost 
of his strength. You would say he was fishing 
with all his might, for, although gray-haired, the 
sinews upon his neck are everywhere swollen, and 
his strength is that which belongs to youth. At 
a short distance from the seaworn old man is a 
vineyard loaded heavily with ripe grapes, while a 
little boy, seated beneath the thorn hedge, is 
guarding it, and near him are two foxes, the one 
prowling through the rows of vines and injuring 
the grapes, and the other, laying his plans for the 
boy's wallet, seems to say that he will not depart 
until he shall have made him sit down without his 
dinner. The boy has a beautiful grasshopper trap 
of asphodils, braiding it with bulrushes, nor is he 
at all concerned about his wallet, but is less taken 
up with his vines than his trap. All around this 
goblet are unfolded the moist leaves of the acan- 

87 



thus; an ^olic scene, a wonder which would as- 
tonish you. I gave as the price of it to a Cale- 
donian sailor a she-goat and a large cheese made 
of white milk. The goblet has never touched my 
lips and is still unsoiled, yet willingly would I 
gratify you with it, my friend, if you would but 
sing that lovely lay. Nor will I envy you it after- 
wards. Come, then, kind sir, for surely you will 
not reserve the song for oblivious Pluto. 



Thyrsis. 

Begin, O lovely Muses. Begin the rustic lay ! 
This is Thyrsis from ^Etna, and this is Thyrsis' 
song. 

Where, O Nymphs, where were you when Daph- 
nis pined and died ? in the beautiful vales of Peneus, 
or Mount Pindar.? for you surely were not there 
by the great river Arapis, the heights of ^tna, or 
the sacred waters of Acis. 

Begin, O lovely Muses. Begin the rustic lay ! 
Him the jackalls and the wolves bemoaned, and 
him the forest lion bewailed when dead. 

Begin, O lovely Muses. Begin the rustic lay ! 
Many cows and many bulls, many calves and 
many heifers, had then reason to mourn. 

Begin, O lovely Muses. Begin the rustic lay! 
Mercury came first from the mountain, and cried 

88 LrfO. 



out, " Who distresses thee, O Daphnis, or with 
whom are you in love?" 

Begin, lovely Muses, oh, begin the rustic lay ! 
Cowherds, shepherds, and goatherds, all came and 
asked, "What evil has befallen him?" and Pria- 
pus came and cried, " Why, O wretched Daphnis, 
do you pine thus?" and a jealous damsel also came 
and wandered alone through the groves and about 
the fountain, and cried out, " Are you some dis- 
consolate lover, you who were once counted a cow- 
herd ? Now, however, you resemble a goatherd !" 

The cowherd answered them naught, but bore 
his bitter love, and bore it, indeed, until his destiny 
was fulfilled. 

And Venus came sweet and smiling, smiling, in- 
deed, in secret, but showing deep resentment, and 
cried, " You boasted that you would conquer Love, 
but Love has conquered you !" 

Then Daphnis answered her, " O cruel Venus ! 
Malicious Venus ! Venus so full of woe to mor- 
tals ! But all things show that my sun has set, 
and Daphnis will be in Hades a mourning lover. 
Begone to Ida, where Anchises is said to have loved 
Venus ! Begone to Anchises, where are the oaks, 
and the long cypress, and where sweetly hum the 
bees around their hives ! 

There the blooming Adonis tends his flocks, 

strikes down the hares, and hunts his wild game. 

89 



Again, go stand by Diomed and say, I have 
conquered Daphnis, the cowherd, now then con- 
tend thou with me. 

ye wolves and jackals, and ye bears that dwell 
in the dens of the mountains. 

Farewell! I, your herdsman, Daphnis, am no 
longer in forest, thicket, or grove. 

Farewell, Arethusa ! and ye streams which empty 
yourselves into the fair waters of Thymbris. 

1 am the Daphnis who here fed his cows, the 
Daphnis who here watered his bulls and his heifers. 

O Pan, Pan ! Whether you are now roving over 
the lofty mountains of Lycaisis or over Menelaus 
the great, come to this isle of Sicily, forsake the 
promontory of Helice and that lofty tomb of the 
son of Lycaon (Menelaus), which even the blessed 
gods themselves admire. 

Come, O King of the forest, and take this beau- 
tiful pipe, fragrant with compact wax and worn 
by my lips, for now am I dragged by love down 
to the realms of Pluto. 

Now let brambles and briars put forth violets, 

and the narcissus wave instead of junipers. Let 

all things be reversed: let the pine bring forth 

pears, for Daphnis is dead! Let the stag entice 

the dogs, and the owls of the mountains vie with 

the nightingale in song. Cease, ye Muses. Now 

cease this rustic lay." 

90 



Having said these things, he ceased. Venus 
wished to restore him, but all the threads of life 
were exhausted, and Daphnis crossed the stream 
of Acheron. The gulf swallowed up the man be- 
loved by the Muses, and not despised by the 
Nymphs, 

Cease, ye Muses, cease the rustic lay ! And 
Goatherd, now give me the goblet and the goat, 
that, milking it, I may make a libation to the 
Muses. Oh, a long adieu, ye Muses, adieu ! In 
future I promise to sing more sweetly for you. 



Goatherd. 
May thy sweet mouth be filled with honey and 
the honey-comb ! And mayest thou dine on the 
sweet dried figs from ^gilhis ! for thou singest 
sweeter than the cricket. But behold the goblet ! 
See, my friend, how sweetly it smells ! Indeed, you 
would think it had been washed in the fountain 
of the Hours. Come hither, " Cissaetha !" and 
Thyrsis do you now milk her ; and beware, ye kids, 
how ye frolic, lest the he-goat may bother you. 



91 



FROM JUVENAL'S TENTH SATIRE 

Ask for a mind strong and without the fear of 
Death, which counts the last stage of hfe among 
the gifts of Nature, which can bear any trials, 
knows not to be angry, longs for nothing, and 
which reckons the toils and severe labors of Her- 
cules more pleasant than the lasciviousness, the 
luxury, and the ease of Sardanapalus. 



FROM THE LIFE OF AGRICOLA BY 
TACITUS— A TRANSLATION 

Section XLIII 

The day of Agricola's death was one of great 
affliction to his friends, nor was it unheeded even 
by strangers, and foreigners. The people, and that 
class who meddle not in affairs of state were con- 
stantly at his door, and his name was anxiously 
mentioned in the forum, and by many downcast 
groups of citizens. His death all mourned, and 
was not soon forgotten. The public sympathy 
was the more deeply enlisted from the circum- 
stance of a report having gained ground that he 
had been taken off by poison ! I, as the faithful 

chronicler of his life and death, dare not say this 

93 



report had any foundation, but this much is true, 
that during his whole illness the chief confidants 
of the Emperor and his most private physicians 
came oftener to the house of Agricola than is usual 
for an Emperor's visits, made as they are through 
other persons, and it is certain that the very mo- 
ment of his dissolution was conveyed by appointed 
messengers to the palace. And who can believe 
that so much haste would have been used in the ac- 
quisition of unwelcome intelligence? Domitian, 
however, assumed the appearance of a mourner, 
for he was a man who could more easily disguise 
his joy than his fear. It was plain that the dis- 
covery that Agricola had appointed him a co-heir 
with his excellent wife and devoted daughter gave 
him great satisfaction. So blinded and depraved 
had become the tyrant's mind through constant 
adulation that he did not reflect that by a good 
father none but a cruel prince is appointed heir to 
his property. 

Section XL VI 

" If there be a land where the souls of the good 
find repose, if, as philosophers think, great souls 
are not destroyed with the bodies which they in- 
habit, sweetly mayest thou rest, shade of our 
father ! and do thou call us and all thine household 

from vain regrets and weak lamentations to the con- 

93 



templation of virtues which it is not right to de- 
plore ; rather let us honor thee by our admiration 
of those virtues and (if frail nature will permit) by 
their imitation, than by the passing praises of time. 
This will be true honor, this the deepest reverence 
your kindness can display. I would enjoin it upon 
your daughter and wife so to revere the virtues of 
a sire and husband that, recalling every word and 
deed, they may forever fix in their minds the image 
of thy soul rather than that of thy body. Not that 
I would proscribe the busts made of marble and 
brass, but, since the images of the human body are 
as frail as their originals, that they may rather 
trace and portray the image of the eternal mind, 
which no art can imitate. That which we love and 
admire in Agricola remains, and will forever re- 
main, shrined in the memory of man and the history 
of the world through all coming time. An inglo- 
rious oblivion has, indeed, rolled over many of the 
illustrious ancients, but the memory of Agricola, 
now that his life and character are submitted to 
posterity, will endure forever." 

How truly is the prophecy fulfilled! Over how much 
that was glorious in the ancient world has time rolled its 
lethean wave, but in the memoir of Tacitus the memory 
of Agricola is embalmed forever. 

M. R. T. 



94 



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